THE CHURCH OF THE ADVENT
by Vyrazhi
Summary: You can't spell CTHULHU without C-U-L-T...Rated T for themes. Please read, review, and enjoy!
1. A PROBLEM OF THE SOUL

_**CHURCH OF THE ADVENT **_

_A Tale of the Cthulhu Mythos by Vyrazhi, ©2014_

(AUTHOR'S HISTORICAL NOTE: This story takes place in the mid-1830's, when, in the United States, there was a significant Protestant revival movement called the "Second Great Awakening" by historians.

According to Wikipedia: _"The movement began around 1790, gained momentum by 1800, and after 1820 membership rose rapidly among Baptist and Methodist congregations whose preachers led the movement. It was past its peak by the late 1840s. It has been described as a reaction against skepticism, deism, and rationalism, although why those forces became pressing enough at the time to spark revivals is not fully understood. It enrolled millions of new members in existing evangelical denominations and led to the formation of new denominations. Many converts believed that the Awakening heralded a new millennial age. The Second Great Awakening stimulated the establishment of many reform movements designed to remedy the evils of society before the anticipated Second Coming of Jesus Christ._

"_People at the time talked about the Awakening; historians named the Second Great Awakening in the context of the First Great Awakening of the 1730s and '40s and of the Third Great Awakening of the late 1850s to early 1900s." _

Although the Second Great Awakening is a real historical event, the Church of the Advent is fictional. It is actually a Cthulhu cult. With the Great Old One being a copyrighted creation of H.P. Lovecraft, I do not claim him as my own. All other characters are mine, as well as the Church of the Advent, which is _based upon _Lovecraft's Cthulhu Cult.)

(AUTHOR'S CULTURAL NOTE: The method the Church uses, called the Pattern of the Double-Bind by author Marion Stricker, ©2000, is a method many actual cults use to convince and control their members. To learn more about it and how it operates in real life, please PM me. I _never _quote her text word for word. I just explain and expound upon the ideas she presents in my fictional work. Thus, on with our tale…)

_**STAGE THE FIRST: A PROBLEM OF THE SOUL**_

"_For where we are is Hell; and where Hell is, there must we ever be." -Christopher Marlowe_

"_That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange aeons even death may die." -H.P. Lovecraft _

_**~ 1835, During the Second Great Awakening in the 'Burned-over' district of New York ~**_

"Are you all right?"

I blink, not sure where I am or what I'm doing at the moment. All I know is that my eyelids itch terribly.

"Narcissa?"

"I'm sorry. The air is making me wish that I could soak both my eyes and nose in cool rainwater."

Abigail Randall, my closest friend, smiles and winces at the same time. "You're not the only one."

"Then why on earth are you in the local Garden Club?"

"I've always loved flowers. I can't help it if they make my nose sound like a freight train's whistle when I blow it!" We both chuckle softly in the muted confines of Cordelia's Tea Room. "It's a good thing my maid Ada is a patient laundress. Without her I'd have to wash my own handkerchiefs." She shudders, not daring to mention their contents out loud while we're having an afternoon snack. "Seriously, however, I suspect that there's something more wrong with you than seasonal affectations. You seem…faded, like watercolor paint with too much water in it." Art was another one of Abigail's passions; I was more partial to writing.

"I don't know, although you're right. I've been more tired than usual lately, and slow to act."

"Have you been working on that book of short stories about which you've been telling me?"

The bridge of my nose painfully pinches itself shut, and I clear it just in time to keep something inelegant from oozing out. "I have, and I haven't. No matter what I try to write, it always lacks the necessary jolt to tingle someone else's spine. Even though I'm halfway through 'The Murderer's Corpse', it's hollow: A dead man who revives and kills again? I daresay this tale has been told before, by far greater authors than I."

Abigail smirks, exposing dimples in her cheeks. "For someone with your name, you aren't very confident."

"Ah, but the original Narcissus loved only himself. I can't say I'm doing that right now." I sigh brusquely and take a sip of chamomile tea. "Perhaps I should really give up _belles lettres and _teach children instead."

"As a schoolmarm? You?" She nearly chokes on a mouthful of water while stifling a guffaw. "For starters, you don't have the patience for it, and have said so yourself. Secondly of all, schoolmistresses are…"

_Old maids _and _spinsters _are what Abigail's trying not to say, because I am one at thirty-four years old. To spare her further embarrassment, I pronounce these fatal words. _"Plain _is what I meant. You're simply stunning." She looks down at her plate and takes a crunchy bite of a hard biscuit. "I'm sorry. It's just that you're suited for greater things, although…" Her blue eyes suddenly gleam. "Conjugate _perdre_ for me."

"_Non." _To take the pain away from her immediate pout, I tell her, _"Je perdu _almost all of that years ago." When we were at Appleton's Finishing School for Young Ladies, not so very long ago, French verbs were considered as necessary to master as the proper folding of napkins or serving of tea. If we were going to be refined ladies, and not common women, we had to make an impression that we were of the higher sort. Back then the clarity of _perdre_ and the convoluted mazes of _être _and _aller _were my specialties. What good could they do me now? None, because only Abigail cared about them, yet she was too old for lessons.

"Narcissa." Abigail looks at me gently, pityingly, and then says, "What you have is a problem of the soul."

"_Ennui? _Yes, although I'm more than just bored. It's not _activity_ that I lack; it's _meaning." _My golden friend, my gardenia-scented foil in the flesh, leans forward, wanting me to explain. Against my better judgment, all the bottled feelings inside my soul gush out of my mouth in the oddest way, like blackberry wine on a crisp tablecloth in the winter - out of place, out of time, and certainly out of character. Even between friends, there are certain things that friends don't and shouldn't discuss, particularly morbid matters of the heart. Nevertheless, I can't stop the torrent of words as it rages:

"Have you ever gazed at the stars and wondered what lies in the spaces between them? More than that, have you ever wondered why we were placed here, on Earth, instead of upon one of those celestial spheres? Down here we laugh; we cry; we sin and make fools of ourselves. Up there? Paradise. Peace. Down here all is noise and chaos, even on the Sabbath when everyone is to rest from their daily toil. Up there? No day of rest is needed, because all _is_ restful. There is no need for fear and anxious bustle, biting your nails in apprehension and hoping they'll grow back in time for your cousin's debutante ball! If you were a citizen of the stars instead of the State of New York, what would your name be? A sage's. What would your destiny be, your aim in life? To spread wisdom as a god or goddess of the firmament! Work would not be drudgery; it would be bliss because it would be meaningful to all the universe. What does it matter if I finish that cursed book or not? No one will ever know I wrote it, only 'Stanley Cardwell' - a false name, like those of my characters! Is my whole life merely a dark fairy tale with an unhappy ending?"

Abigail stares, her eyes wide. It seems she couldn't be more stunned if I'd slapped her. By slow degrees her expression changes from fearful, to confused, to thoughtful, and finally resolute. She swallows.

"I'd like you to come to a meeting tonight with me, at seven o'clock."

"What kind?"

"At the new Church of the Advent on Maple Street. I know how you feel about church, put please come…"


	2. WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?

_**STAGE THE FIRST: WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?**_

(AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'd originally intended each _Stage _of this story to have one chapter, but as they say, "The best-laid plans often go awry." The 'charity' incidents in this chapter are based upon real events - real Christmastime events back when I went to college.)

"_Bright before me, the signs implore me, 'Help the needy and show them the way'…" -Randy Newman_

"_God helps those who help themselves." -Attributed to Benjamin Franklin_

At six-forty-five sharp, Abigail and her husband John arrive to help me walk to the Church of the Advent. Ever since I was five years old, I've had a noticeable limp due to double-fracturing my left leg. Girls shouldn't climb trees, or so I'd been told. Nevertheless, I ignored Mother's warning and paid the price.

Why, oh, why am I teetering out on such a limb now?

I don't only want to make Abigail happy by "going to meeting". It's strange, but it seems the Lord has gently been calling me back to His house. While rummaging through a stack of books in my downstairs study last week, I found Father's well-worn Bible, inscribed with the names of those who had gone before me. Ever since I'd quit one local congregation, three years ago, I hadn't had the nerve to pick it up. I know this is sacrilegious, but the Word of God filled me with outright disgust. I couldn't read the crimson words of our true Saviour without thinking of some false ones, in that whitewashed Ladies' Help and Aid Society.

"Trust me," Abigail says as she steadies me on my left side. "This Church isn't like any other one in town."

"Indeed," adds John, half a step ahead of us. "They truly mean what they say, and money's not their goal."

"Do you mean there won't be an offering?" Abigail nudges me sharply with her elbow, and John snickers.

"The offerings for which they ask are different: time, talents, sincere worship, and good deeds above all."

I keep silent to avoid offending John, but it sounds exactly like the last church I attended. What a shame!

"Speaking of which," says my closest friend, "we really could have hired a hansom cab to take us, dear."

"I'm no _invalid." _Inwardly, I wince. Those three words came out far colder than I'd meant them to, wintry blasts in the summer-evening heat. "I'm sorry. You meant no harm, and thank you for your concern."

"You're welcome. You're stubborn as a mule, Narcissa, but that's what our new congregation needs."

"A mule?" I feel my eyes begin to sparkle with laughter, and my face to flush hot.

"Someone who stands for what she believes, and doesn't drink snake oil from charlatans." We chuckle.

_Charlatans. That word comes from the French "charlatan", meaning a babbler. I suppose that the Ladies' Help and Aid Society babbled a lot, especially at their socials, but that's not what troubles me. All of their chatter didn't mean much when it came to what they'd set out to do. I remember that bitter December… _

Three years ago, I'd gone out caroling with the Society for their annual Christmas event. It was a time to sing, certainly, but also to bring treats and hot meals in covered dishes to those in need. There were eight of us, and two had graciously offered to help me traverse the soot-sullied slush beneath. They also carried wrapped loaves of fruitcake and cinnamon bread under their arms. I'd marveled at their capacities.

"'Tis nothing," the one on my right had said. I believe her name was Sally. "I bear any burden God gives."

I'd shriveled up inside, like the flower that bears my name, once the winds of Yuletide brush its petals. Abigail gives me too much credit. I may speak my mind when I feel brave enough, but back then? I had no right to complain, not when these saints were assisting me as well as the less-fortunate of our fair city.

We'd walked nearly a block when a thin and bristle-bearded man, looking about sixty, approached us in a ragged black coat. "Alms for the poor?" he asked. "A penny for the needy, in our infant Lord's name?"

"Oh, I have more than that, sir," I told him. "Here. Have this half-dollar piece, and Merry Christmas!" After he'd snatched the coin from my hand and departed, dashing down the street without another word, the other carolers of the Help and Aid Society turned to gape at me. Had I suddenly removed my dress?

"Narcissa?" asked one of them, whose name I can't now remember. "Why on earth did you do that?"

"He asked for alms, so I gave them. A penny doesn't go very far these days. I thought I'd be generous."

"Too generous," said Sally. "He will simply buy a jug of demon rum with it, or a woman of the town."

I looked skeptical. "Oh, yes," sneered Emma Green, our Leading Lady. "Even at his age, men still lust."

"You should have let me offer him my loaf of fruitcake," said a kinder one of them, Lorraine. "That would have fed him for a day, or two or three if he knows how to ration. I admire your heart, but not your sense."

All I could do was glance down at the ground. I felt as dirty as the snow that we had trodden underfoot, intermingled with the sludge from countless boots and shoes. I hadn't meant to be a fool, but Lorraine was right. Food was more valuable than coin, at least to a beggar, or it would have been to me if I were one.

"Come," Emma told us. "Mrs. Hampton's house is just up this side street, and I bet her brood is starving!"

Mrs. Caroline Hampton had a grand and stately name, although she didn't feel she deserved it. She insisted we call her _Lina, _rhyming with _china, _and I dearly wish we had given her some for Christmas. As it was, we'd brought a hot crock full of roast beef and one of stewed vegetables between the eight of us. The rest of our offerings were bread-based, and between the eight of them - Caroline, her husband Stan, and their six children - all but two of the foods we'd originally carried from the church remained uneaten. As for Lina's china? It was chipped at best and half-broken at worst. I feared for the children's health.

"Goodness gracious!" Lina cried. "We didn't mean to eat so much, did we, darlings?"

They shook their heads collectively, although two of them giggled and one let out a belated belch. "Can we sing 'Silent Night'?" he asked. "My name is Harvey, and that's my favorite Christmas song."

"Of course," I said, opening my fool mouth again without checking to see what the other Ladies thought. Fortunately they all agreed, and we sang all three verses despite having more people to help and visit. For some odd reason, the third verse almost brought me to tears, although it rarely had before:

"_Silent night, holy night,_

_Son of God, Love's pure light._

_Radiant beams from Thy holy face,_

_With a dawn of redeeming grace._

_Jesus, Lord at Thy birth,_

_Jesus, Lord at Thy birth!"_

Little Harvey stood next to me, and murmured afterward: "I wish Jesus were here right now."

"Me, too," I said, hoping that I'd find Him by the dim light of the single candle on the Hamptons' table.

When we were outside again and tallying our remaining edible goods, Emma Green's heart sank: "Only two loaves of bread, one cinnamon and one plain? We shouldn't have let those people eat like pigs!"

"Pardon me, but no," I replied. "They're a family of eight. Should they have had one bite apiece?"

"Pardon _me, _Miss Levy, but your hyperbole is unappreciated. We'll have to go home early, after we drop these meager gifts off to some hopeful new members of our congregation - the Ackers and the Meads."

"As opposed to the needy?"

"You've said enough. Everyone is needy at some point, and these households aren't rich by any means."

I went along feeling shy and dejected, not daring to say much beyond "Merry Christmas" and sing carols. The Ackers and the Meads may not have been wealthy, but they looked nowhere near as poor as the Hamptons had. Their dishes, at least, had no cracks or any chips their children might inadvertently eat.

"The Lord helps those who help themselves," said Sally afterward. "At least they both keep a good house."

_What has that got to do with anything? _I thought, enraged, wanting to topple a lit lamppost with my bare fist.

Now, remembering this, I accidentally grip Abigail's arm too tightly. She cries out, and I release her.

"I…I don't know what's wrong with me! I felt a sudden flash of anger from a memory of my former church. Once again, I apologize. I guess the problem is…that I don't know how to help other people properly."

"Don't worry," John Randall says, smiling in sympathy. "This new Church shall teach you, as it is teaching us."


	3. INTERLUDE: SACRIFICE

_**INTERLUDE: SACRIFICE**_

(AUTHOR'S NOTES: For those anxiously waiting for the Great Old One to appear, _voilà! _You won't have to wait until Narcissa reaches _Stage the Ninth _of her absorption into the cult for his "divine intervention"… Also, these Interludes will be written in the first-person omniscient point of view and past tense, like most stories, while the regular chapters shall always be in Narcissa's first-person, present-tense point of view.)

_"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!" - H.P. Lovecraft_

"_A Binder is concerned with _numbers_ and must have many followers…" - Marion Stricker_

Pastor Obed Cunningham, of the Church of the Advent, always preferred his steak bloody-rare.

He also preferred to eat in his clerical office on Sundays, or special evenings like this one.

"Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Bring-Your-Friends-Day," he mumbled cheerfully to himself while cutting a sirloin. "I hope this service will be a success. With all the revival meetings in our area, it's time some people realized the crassness of such proceedings. Who needs people screaming and writhing on the ground, 'filled with the Holy Ghost', when all they're really filled with is mass hysteria? We are a calm, orderly Church, and I daresay that the Spirit of our Lord can be more clearly felt in a quiet place. I don't practice faith healing - not yet, at least - or have 'guaranteed draws' for crowds, like the singing Manderley Sisters at Faith Baptist! Nevertheless, are they really important? No. What we possess is far greater."

Obed stopped suddenly, setting his fork down onto his plate with a _clink. _What he'd said wasn't quite right.

"Whom we worship is far greater."

Yes. That was it.

His conscience quelled, the Pastor fell to eating, taking several bites in a row and not bothering to chew each one more than thrice. For some reason he was ravenous and not merely hungry. Perhaps this was a sign of - no. It wasn't time. He hadn't even performed very many baptisms, let alone the Consummation. Hopefully that would change as of tonight. Obed knew that the Master had shown him increased favor, in proportion to his increasing obedience.

"When the members of our congregation feel your Presence, they'll know our faith is the only real one."

He took another bite and sighed. _There are so many churches in this great country of ours, _he thought, _but none of them preaches the truth. They all believe they do, of course, but they delude themselves. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, as they say, because good intentions won't save humanity. _

"Only actions will," Obed told the stale air of his office, now infused with the scent of steak. "Our actions."

He could hear people arriving downstairs in the sanctuary, chattering like magpies and clunking their boots and canes as they walked. Reverence was one of the key teachings of the Church of the Advent, yet it appeared that many of the faithful had forgotten it already. No matter. He had not. Now that his dinner was finished, he would pay proper homage to his Deity. Even though no one else was there, except for perhaps a few rats in the walls, the Pastor glanced around the room. After reassuring himself thus, he dipped his right index finger into the thin trickle of beef blood on his plate and wetted it thoroughly.

Not wasting any time, he walked to the west window, through which orange sunlight streamed. Above the window on the wall plaster, he painted what looked like the veins of a leaf: a long stem, with six branches. He then knelt down and began mouthing words to himself: "_Ia, ia, Cthulhu fhtagn. Ia, ia, Cthulhu fhtagn."_ Obed dared not say them out loud, on the slightest chance someone might hear, but the Great One would. The first syllable was to be pronounced as _ya, _as in _yacht; _the rest were nearly incomprehensible.

_His ways are not Man's ways; His Language is not our language. Those who defile it shall be damned. _

Despite this, Obed's lips flapped open and shut as they mimed the unspeakable phrase. The Elder Sign, drawn in blood, would protect him from harm. At the same time, he wished to commune with whom he sought, and not only call his name. Why cry out to a god who never responded to you? The Great One did, and the Pastor felt a frisson of macabre pleasure throughout his whole body as his mind was touched.

Inside his skull he felt the brush of something cold, slimy and supple at the same time. It made him weak. His nostrils were filled with the sea and the odor of dead fish. Repulsive, but he'd known worse before. His skin, unusually dry for a man of sixty-odd years, felt even more desiccated. Did his senses perceive the ocean or a barren desert wasteland? Perhaps the holy city of _R'lyeh_ was both of these things at once.

"_Ia," _he moaned helplessly. _"Ia, ia." _Then, snapping to attention on his knees: _Don't babble like an idiot! _

"I am here," Obed intoned, "and shall do all that you command, O Lord Almighty." This was acceptable for speech. Anyone overhearing him, even accidentally, would think he was praying to the God of Christians, Jews, and pious fools in other flocks. Of course, this was not the case, but who would be the wiser? "Use me in Thy service, and let me be a mere instrument in Thy hands. I obey no other will but Thine. Amen."

With considerable effort he stood, wincing at the sharp pains in his legs. It was but a small sacrifice.

_Sacrifice. _The word flashed in the Pastor's mind once more, and he beheld a vision of his congregation. At first they were families clad in their Sunday best, but then they transformed in the blink of an eye. They changed from males into meat, females into fillets, and babies into brisket. Red and luscious they were, marbled with white fat according to the present content in their bodies. All but one. It - was it a he, she? - was nearly invisible except for shimmering waves, like the essence of heat. It spoke in the Master's voice.

Obed whispered through his teeth: "First you'll _consume _nearly everyone, then _complete_ your Chosen."

As soon as he realized that he'd murmured these words aloud, he jerked his head around ferociously. Who had heard? It was almost time for the evening's special service, and more people were arriving.

_People. _The Bible claimed they, like sheep, had gone astray, but to him they were more like cattle. He had grown up on a ranch before deciding to trade in his overalls for a preacher's suit, perfectly starched. Obed knew that as it aged a sheep became less edible, but beef was always delicious. Also, cattle needed branding - Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, atheist - and horses and dogs with sharp teeth to keep them in line. Typically bulls and cows weren't as stupid as sheep, but were slaughtered all the same. The most important thing was that their purpose was exactly identical: cattle fed people, and people fed churches.

_These _people would feed _this _Church, and eventually the One who ruled it.

"Congregants," Obed announced, "your Pastor awaits." He descended the stairs toward the sanctuary.


	4. STAGE THE SECOND: BLEEDING

_**STAGE THE SECOND: BLEEDING**_

"_Old Man Stauf built a house, and filled it with his toys._

_Six guests were invited one night, their screams the only noise._

_Blood inside the library, blood right up the hall,_

_Dripping down the attic stairs: Hey, guests - try not to fall!_

_Nobody came out that night. Not one was ever seen,_

_But Old Man Stauf is waiting there, crazy, sick, and MEAN…" -__The 7__th__ Guest_

"_For the wages of sin is death…" -Romans 6:23_

It has begun again, for the last time.

Poor Abigail doesn't know. Neither does John, or any of the good souls in my former congregation. Even Dr. Pontiff says that at this stage, there's nothing more that he can do for me.

A tiny ghost sleeps inside my womb, neither male nor female, and shall haunt me until my coming end.

How is it that some people are born, and some are not? Was my body so unwilling to give one infant life? Could that soul feel my anguish at becoming a mother without a corresponding father? It's true: I've been a whore, and succumbed to pleasures a respectable wife should deny. "Take up your cross and follow Me", the Saviour said, yet I could not. I couldn't pay for my foul deed by bearing a living child. Instead, my wicked body spewed it forth like the remains of a half-spoiled dinner. Perhaps my baby knew I was utterly unfit to be a mother.

"Seth," I whisper. "Anne." _Which one were you?_

I bite down on my lower lip so hard that it begins to ooze. I've never spoken those two names aloud.

_Blackness. _I fainted and woke up that morning, so dizzy that the whole room whirled. _Wetness, tears…_

_Agony. _

I'd prayed for death then, so why now? Have I not paid my debt in full?

No. That's not the reward of sin. _Stipendium peccati MORS est, _if I recall Father's Latin lessons correctly.

"Narcissa, dear?" Abigail gently turns toward me in one of the church's pews. "Is something the matter?"

"Nothing of consequence," I tell her. "Perhaps I've eaten something at dinner that doesn't suit me."

"Very well." She smiles and illuminates the whole room. Even at twenty-five, she's as radiant as eighteen. I wish I could tell her. I wish I could sob out the contents of my heart and let tears gush onto her dress, but that's no burden for Mrs. Randall to carry. She has hers, but mine is mine alone. Abigail was joined to John in the lawful way, with courtship first, wedding invitations, a formal ceremony, then the bridal bed.

At eighteen years old, I'd had Father to tend before he passed away of _stomach sickness. _Of course, his was far different from mine! It was a lingering, malevolent affair, stealing his strength by gradual degrees. First his legs failed, then his arms, and finally his mind. On his deathbed he was nearly delirious with pain. I'd had no time to think of courtship or marriage for so long that I nearly became disinterested in them.

Love? It couldn't keep him alive. Father had enjoyed his days with such vigor as I grew up, but I didn't know what had robbed him of it until the autopsy. Countless growths, as grotesque as balls of excrement but without the stench, had been poisoning him from the inside out. My fate is fitting. As he bled internally, so I now bleed, even though my _growth_ is gone. Dr. Pontiff deems it slow hemorrhaging; I deem it justice.

Justice for being the only one of six guests to leave a New Year's gala with more than a hangover…


	5. WHAT IS FAITH?

_**STAGE THE SECOND: WHAT IS FAITH?**_

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Some of you readers may be wondering, "What's up with the weird wording of your titles? Shouldn't it be 'First Stage', 'Second Stage,' etc.?" Yes indeed, but I'm being poetic. I've read novels with large sections called "Book the First", "Book the Second", and so on, so I've used that same idea here. I'm also curious: Have any of you read novels like these, which contain 'books within a book'?

Also, why all this talk of Christ if it's actually a Cthulhu cult? Check out its "Three Principles of Faith" to learn more. Moreover, it's not wise for Pastor Cunningham to "show his hand" too early. Jesus is the "bait" that makes the Church sound perfectly normal, so the congregation will not suspect the "hook" beneath.)

"_I dreamed that God would be forgiving…" -Fantine, from Les Misérables_

"_I talk to God but the sky is empty." -Sylvia Plath _

"Good evening," says the petite and nervous man in front of us. "I am Pastor Obed Cunningham, of the Church of the Advent. I extend my greetings to everyone, especially new visitors, and hope you'll attend our services on the Sabbath." He grins from ear to ear, although his lips are stretched tight over his teeth.

_He's either insincere or so frightened of us that he might scream. Perhaps this is his very first pastorship._

"I suppose you have many questions, especially about this Church, but here is one of mine: What is faith?" Pastor Cunningham stands on a wooden dais, his gnarled white hands folded at his waist, waiting for us to answer. Of course it's a rhetorical question so the silence is almost pointless. It lingers for ten full seconds, and Abigail and I gaze at each other anxiously. He smiles like a teacher expecting a clever reply from rather dull students, then turns and steps behind the pulpit. The echo of his footfalls resounds.

"Have you heard the Nicene Creed? _We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. And in One Lord, Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all aeons, Light of Light, very God of very God, begotten, not made, of one substance with the Father; by whom all things were made; who for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven and was incarnate by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary and was made man; he was crucified for us under Pontius Pilate, and suffered and was buried, and the third day he rose again, according to the Scriptures, and ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of the Father; from thence he shall come again, with glory, to judge the quick and the dead; whose kingdom shall have no end. And in the Holy Ghost, the Lord, the Giver of life, who proceedeth from the Father, and who with the Father and the Son together is worshipped and glorified, who spake by the prophets. In one holy, catholic, and apostolic Church; we acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins; we look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen." _

He takes a deep breath, letting it out through his teeth so that his chest deflates slowly, and continues:

"We believe, and believe, and believe, but what of it? How many of those who call themselves Christians worship Him on Sunday, yet do not act accordingly on Monday? In church they adore God, but out of it they bow down before Mammon. The idols of the marketplace are not the only ones, however. One day per week, they vow temperance, humility and chastity, but the rest of it they live in debauchery, arrogance and lustfulness. I ask you: Is this faith? Is their faith true, and will it stand before the Almighty? It will not. This is hypocrisy, which reeks in the nostrils of our God! These pious play-actors may believe in every part of the Creed with all of their _minds, _but their _hearts _and _souls _do not follow suit. Neither do their actions."

I find myself shivering in spite of the Church's musty heat. He is describing me, on that New Year's Eve.

"Are they faithful? Nay. Such people have no idea what true faith is, but our Lord himself informs us. Does it not say in the Book of James that 'faith without works is dead'? What does it matter if you _believe_ in the Father, Son and Holy Ghost if you don't tread in their footsteps day by day, and live out their example?

"Consider what it says in the Book of Philippians about Jesus Christ in chapter 2, verse 8: _And being found in fashion as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross.' _What has this to do with faith? The answer is glaringly obvious: absolutely everything. Our Saviour had such profound faith in His Father, the Author and Finisher of the Plan of Salvation, that he was willing to complete every single portion of it. He was willing to come to this earth and be born of a human being, _as_ a human being of flesh and blood. He was willing to obey his earthly mother and father, who were both tainted by sin, in order to remove it from them eventually. He was willing to associate with whores and tax collectors and call one of these, Matthew, to be His disciple. However, Christ did not take part in their sin. He never visited a prostitute for carnal purposes; neither did He steal from anyone in the name of taxation.

"Even though He was human, He never disobeyed God, and _that _was what made his faith perfect - not only his trust in the One who sent him. He demonstrated our Church's first principle: _Faith requires action. _What would His beliefs have mattered if they did not lead Him to the cross, the grave, and the heavens?"

_Maybe they would have…could have…no. If Jesus had not acted upon His faith, could we be saved?_

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at Abigail. She's leaning forward slightly, intent on every word.

"Here is another question: is faith like money or any other possession, in that one either 'has' it or does not? Once more, I tell you nay. You may think that there are naturally people who believe and those who don't, but everyone believes in something. It may be God, or Science, or any other theory or philosophy. Nonexistent is the man who places his trust in absolutely nothing, including his own life. Even if he claims he does not actually exist, he has faith in that point of view! Faith is like no other _thing_ on earth; rather, it is a _maturation _of one's spirit. Once it sprouts in the bosom of Man, it blossoms, stagnates or dies. You who are gardeners, do you plant a seed and not provide it water and light? Do you not prune and fertilize it so it will become a healthy flower, tree or vegetable? Faith may be a seed, but it also must grow like one if it is to prosper. The second principle of our Church is this: _Faith is a continual process of spiritual growth."_

_I've never heard it put that way. At my old church, it was something you had, didn't have, or else lost. _

"This brings us to our final principle. How is it that we grow spiritually, and keep on doing so? What kind of actions must we undertake in order to demonstrate faith? Again our Lord himself provides the answer, this time in John, chapter 14, verse 15: _"If you love Me, you will keep My commandments." _Later in that same chapter, this time in verse 23, he states: _"Anyone who loves Me will obey My teaching. My Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them." _Nearly at the end of the Holy Bible, in 1 John chapter 5, verse 3, it reiterates this point: _"In fact, this is love for God: to keep his commands. And his commands are not burdensome." _Could anything be clearer? We speak of many things when we speak of love, but there is only one way to show love for our Lord. Our third principle embraces this: _Faith is made perfect through obedience. _The more we obey our God, the more we will grow to love Him."

I feel so cold inside, so numb, that all I can think of is the tomb. Nevertheless, I know the Pastor's right.

I've prayed day and night for forgiveness, and absolution of my baby's death, but I have never begged for pardon for my original sin: being drunk, and therefore vulnerable to Satan's temptations. Without the champagne coursing through my veins, would I have gone to bed with the mysterious Russian musician that night? Surely not. I would have had my wits about me, and would have resisted his gentle invitation…

"We must obey; first and foremost, we must obey his commandment to repent of all our sins."

He stands at his full height, and even though he isn't very tall, he seems to tower over the pulpit:

"This is faith: to _do, _and not merely to think or believe. Otherwise we are like clanging cymbals."

Pastor Cunningham gestures magnanimously toward the baptismal font behind him.

"Wilt thou repent, and go down into the waters of baptism? Wilt thou be cleansed of thy iniquities?"


	6. CLEANSED BY WATER

_**STAGE THE SECOND: CLEANSED BY WATER**_

"_As I went down in the river to pray, studying about that Good Old Way,_

_And who shall wear the robe and crown? Good Lord, show me the way…" -Alison Krauss_

"_I want to be the best I can, and live with God again." -from "When I Am Baptized", a Mormon hymn_

Silence fills the Church, but it's not the dead kind. It's pregnant with anticipation, confusion, and fear.

The Pastor clears his throat and asks again: "Will ye repent, and be baptized in our Lord's name?"

_Hmm? He said "thou" before, calling for one single person, but "ye" is plural. He really means all of us. _

More silence. He glances back toward the font longingly, then after a moment, faces us once more.

"Do you know why we call ourselves the Church of the Advent, instead of by any other name? 'Advent' means 'arrival'; therefore, who is arriving? The God whom we worship, of course, and His time is nigh. We must prepare ourselves, and _purify_ ourselves, but how? The first step is this one. If our transgressions have not been washed away, by the water and the blood, He shall destroy us outright when He comes!

"He will separate the chaff of the world from the grain and thresh us as wheat, discarding those who have not been obedient to Him. Those kernels that are good He shall spare, and take to His eternal home. However, the husks and empty shells of so-called men who have trespassed against Him will perish. They shall be encompassed in fire, consumed by the flames of holy wrath, until nothing is left. First He shall scorch their skin, boil their blood, liquefy their vitals, and burn their bones. When naught but ash remains, He will obliterate it, too, for God cannot tolerate the presence of anything sinful - not one tiny particle. His hunger shall only be satisfied when the earth He created is made pure again, and everything in it. Do you hear? That means _you, _and that means _me, _but I have already been made white as snow. Come, come! Why do ye delay? Do ye desire to be with God, living in Him, or to be against Him and face the penalty?"

When no one rises, sitting still in stupefied horror, the Pastor yanks upon what little hair he has left.

"_FIRE! _It shall swallow you as surely as night swallows the day, and day devours the darkness in its turn. Satan and his demons are watching and waiting, stoking the eternal coals of Hell to roast their prey alive. Oh, yes: Our Lord is not the only One who is hungry and yearning. The Devil is even more so, having been denied the joys of Heaven and the sole food that can satisfy the soul - the presence of our Creator. Our Adversary has been starving, for the more lost souls he eats, the less they quell his unholy cravings. They pass through him like water through a sieve, or more aptly, like guano through a bird. Do you wish for the Great Enemy to chew you up and squeeze you out as waste, which festers in the sewers? No?

"Come. Be purified before it's too late, and the temperature of His justice increases thousandfold!"

I'm so stunned I don't know what to think. The cringing mouse of twenty minutes ago has transformed into a roaring lion, with scarlet face and frazzled white mane. Sweat is beading on his cheeks, and his eyes, nearly slits before, are as wide as dinner plates. They're two onyx orbs, round and intent on engulfing us.

We're cemented to our pews. Poor Abigail clutches my hand, trembling. The Pastor points and shouts:

"_You! _Have you lied in the past three days?" He's selected our local banker, who most likely has. "You! Have you stolen what does not belong to you, and thus deprived your neighbor?" The disheveled-looking man he's collared nods. "You there! Have you coveted what is not rightfully yours?" His gnarled index finger is fixed upon my friends the Randalls, who gaze at one another with faces sick with guilt. They've been wanting a new house, but yearn for a mansion that they can't afford instead of their current molehill.

Then my worst nightmare dawns: _"You! _Have you made yourself a whore?"

Although these words fly like bullets from the Pastor's mouth, I mentally hear them at one-quarter speed. It's as if they're being drawn through molasses, or coming from the opposite end of a long underwater tunnel. Each one hits my brain and splatters, soaking the matter of my mind and seeping into its pores.

"I will!" I hear my mouth cry. "I'll be baptized, and flee from wickedness!" My body leaps out of its seat.

"We, too," John says and helps pull Abigail to her feet. More people rise, and the Pastor beams. He leads me toward the front of the church. My closest comrades follow, and then the banker, the beggar, liars and adulterers, blasphemers and thieves. We have all gone astray, each in our own way, and must return.

To my surprise he ignores the baptismal font, which I hadn't noticed was _empty. _Instead he takes a shiny brass vial, which I had noticed, off the rim of the font and lifts it up. "In the name of Our Lord," he intones, "I baptize thee, and deem thee cleansed of sin. No more shall He remember thy transgressions; neither will He count them against you at the last day. You are pure." He opens the vial and sprinkles my head.

How strange: Before the water touched me, I wondered how odd it was that the font held none of it. Now, as clear drops wet my hair and dribble down onto my forehead, my thoughts vanish. _What was I…?_

No matter. I am clean now; I am free. The stains of my past have at last been removed, especially the - crimson ones. What more can I do or say, and what more can I give, to prove my gratitude for this?

Abigail, John and I are silent as we walk home, lost in holy states of mind. We three have been reborn.

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Some of you might wonder about the mass baptism in this chapter, and why it's done by sprinkling instead of immersion. This is for three reasons: 1) the Pastor wants to baptize everyone as quickly as possible; 2) that way no one will worry about undressing and/or walking home in dripping, soggy clothes, and 3) this is the first baptism, the "bait" - the "hook" is the one by immersion in Stage Five.)


	7. INTERLUDE: HOOKED

_**INTERLUDE: HOOKED**_

"…_The key factor is an agreement based upon hidden facts, in short, a fraudulent contract. This BLACK contract has a WHITE label, 'Yes', attached to it, which they call 'milk'. A member of the church, however, is never to be weaned from 'milk'…New members are caught with a psychological hook." __-Marion Stricker_

"_Have we got a deal?" -Ursula, the Sea Witch, from Walt Disney's "The Little Mermaid"_

If the Great Old One was pleased, as would be proven by a new vision, then why was Obed so afraid?

"_Cthulhu fhtagn," _the Pastor whispered in an enraptured voice. "He waits", but soon he'd wait no longer. He would come to seize the earth which was his to rule, and the human race who had forgotten him. The Pastor was only his messenger and obedient herald. In order for his Advent to occur, the Dead One had to live again in a body of flesh and blood. Obed could not be chosen to resurrect him, but someone else…

"Who is it?" rasped the mortal in the darkness. "Who will be so blessed as to become your prime vessel?"

Nothing. In the stale warmth of his third-floor bedroom, only the ticking of a grandfather clock answered. Beneath his rumpled bedclothes, the old man began to sweat. He licked his lips, his mouth like cotton.

"Have I not been subservient?" he dared to ask the barren walls, and worse: "Have I offended thee?"

This possibility terrified him.

Obed had bought the church two years ago, dilapidated and smelling faintly of mouse droppings. It had taken him all this time to turn it into a thing of beauty, albeit austere, with no ornamentation to be seen. He'd kept it spotless, polishing the pews with his own two hands instead of hiring charwomen to do it. On his aching palms and bony knees, he'd scrubbed the floor until it shone like wooden glass. Then in had stomped those careless, chattering cretins, with dusty boots and mud-encrusted slippers! His Deity would chastise them shortly. The Pastor had almost everyone hooked. He'd reel them in slowly, inch by inch.

"Seventy baptisms tonight," he exulted, "out of the near-hundred who came. "O Master, I give thanks!"

His Master gave thanks in return by causing a subtle, pleasant aroma to enter his servant's nostrils.

At first the Pastor couldn't place the scent, but then he remembered his mother's most favorite flower: night-blooming narcissus.


	8. STAGE THE THIRD: THE PRICE

_**STAGE THE THIRD: THE PRICE**_

"_Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me…" "Just As I Am," a Christian hymn_

"_But when you enjoy the price, you'll find it mighty nice. You'll have it made when you're making lemonade. Turn your frown upside-down; it can turn your world around. Take my advice - enjoy the price!" -From Zig Ziglar's "I CAN!" grade school curriculum, specifically one of his positive-thinking music cassettes_

On Sunday, three days after our baptism, Abigail, John and I enter the rejuvenated Church. Its bare white walls, which seemed spartan to me before, are glowing with intense morning light. There's a palpable spirit of excitement, filled with merry whispers and mumbled salutations. We three enter our previous pew with a fresh sense of purpose, our helloes and how-are-you's sounding holy. Indeed they are, because now we're greeting one another as brothers and sisters in Christ, not just strangers. Even though we don't know everyone's names, that makes little difference. We soon will, and also welcome others into the fold.

"This is the day which the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it!" The Pastor beams at us. "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the LORD thy God." He spreads his arms wide. "Welcome. I must say that I'm pleased to see every one of you here who followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost and became baptized this Thursday last. Let me assure you that this decision shall continue to bring you happiness. 'Likewise, I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.'"

He peers at the few unfamiliar faces in the congregation, and despite myself, so do I.

"Those of you who are new to this Church of the Advent should know three things: what we preach, what we teach, and whom we reach. We _preach_ nothing but the truth, _teach _nothing but the scriptures, and _reach_ none but the lost. After all, as Jesus Christ Himself said, 'They that are whole need not a physician, but they that are sick.' Do ye feel malaise inside your soul, ye who are poisoned by the ills of this world? The remedy is here, and 'tis twofold: obedience and sacrifice. Follow this prescription, and be well at last."

_(YOU!)_

I give a sudden start.

_(YES, YOU!)_

I feel something slice through the air and strike my palms. When I look down, my hands are empty.

What on earth is wrong with me?

Our Pastor steps behind the podium. "Let us stand and raise our voices in praise to the Almighty."

As I rise, feeling both legs tingle because they've fallen asleep, I look around for the source of my sudden pain. Nothing. _Speaking of being sick, perhaps I should ask the apothecary for a tonic to calm my nerves. _I take a deep breath and attempt the hymn we're supposed to be singing, but I don't know it at all. At my old church our pastor was fond of the same ten songs, languidly repeated like the phases of the moon, but this one eludes me. It's called "Counting the Cost" - a simple title concealing a complicated melody.

Since I can't carry the tune, I at least try to pin down the rhythm. Notes fly faster than I can tally them in my mind: one-two-three-two-two-three-three-two-three-four-two-three. It sounds like a feverish waltz, played by a pianist who's either drunk or mad. My head spins, urging my feet to follow, and it's all I can do I keep them planted in place. There's something about this kind of music I can't quite remember, but what is it?

_I wasn't the only one who was whirling around like a dervish. We all were, but only I could keep the 12/8 time…_

My friend John Randall clears his throat, and that's a signal for me to sit down again. _Gah! What am I doing?! If it hadn't been for him, I might have stood there during the rest of the service like a half-wit!_ I sink into the pew, hoping and praying that no one else has seen me. Fortunately, everyone is staring straight ahead.

Silence.

"Now: You may ask, especially if you've recently been baptized, 'Am I not saved? Hasn't Jesus, through His grace and mercy, shed His blood for me upon the cross?' Indeed He has, and this gift has been a ransom for your sins. Eternal woe be unto us, if this be not true! However, if you are truly washed in the blood of the Lamb, you will be a different person, dead to sin and alive to righteousness. 'Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.'

"What does this mean? Have you crawled back into your mother's womb and emerged once more? Have you shed your skin, as does the caterpillar, and crawled out of the pupa of your soul as a butterfly? Nay. Such a metamorphosis is spiritual, not physical, concerning the spirit instead of the body. How does it take place? Recall the medicine of which I spoke: 'And be not conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.'

"The _renewing of your mind _happens through two means: obedience and sacrifice. Why? Aren't the two one and the same? In the Old Testament, God was displeased with King Saul and the flesh of dead animals as an attempt to erase his wicked deeds. The prophet Samuel told Saul: 'Hath the LORD as great delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the LORD? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams.' However, in the New Testament, Paul states: 'What? Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.' In short: obedience _is_ sacrifice, and sacrifice _is_ obedience. Nothing could be clearer."

_I beg your pardon?_

"Christ paid a price for you upon the cross as a suffering servant; therefore, you must pay the price of being His servant in return. 'Then said Jesus unto his disciples, 'If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.' First, though, you must consider the price of _this _price: 'For which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it? Lest haply, after he hath laid the foundation, and is not able to finish it, all that behold it began to mock him, saying, 'This man began to build, and was not able to finish'. Be ye not mocked!"

_Oh, my…I'm getting a headache. _

"Be ye not mocked, either by men on earth or Our Father in heaven as he condemns you to perdition. Ye who have not yet counted the cost, and realized the price of salvation, do so now, before it's too late. 'Cleanse your hands, ye sinners, and purify your hearts, ye double-minded.' Be baptized, and be clean!"

I blink a few times. Why is the rush of new baptisms the only thing I've really understood this morning?

As the new converts weep, I smile and smile, tears forming in my eyes because they've seen the light.

**(AUTHOR'S NOTES: 1) Are you as confused as Narcissa is, dear readers? **_**Good**_** - that's what I intended. **

**2) The last line is supposed to connect with my second epigraph, about 'enjoying the price'. The new people being baptized are 'enjoying the price' of obeying and glorifying God, or so they believe. The Pastor has them so mixed up (or, at least Narcissa) that they can't think straight and work their way through his 'WTF' sermon. **

**3) Who hit Narcissa in her flashback? You'll find out…)**


End file.
